CHAPTER VI
THE CAGE OPENS
Before Harold's day of freedom came Mary was called home by a telegramfrom her father. She longed to see Harold before she left, but she wastoo much hurried to seek out Jack, the loyal go-between, and dared notsend a letter by any other hands. She went away without sending him aword of good-by.
So it happened that the last week of Harold's captivity was spent inloneliness and bitter sorrow, and even when Jack came he brought verylittle information concerning Mary's flight, and Harold was bitter andaccusing.
"Why didn't she write to me? Why didn't she come to see me?"
Jack pleaded for her as well as he was able. "She hadn't time, maybe."
Harold refused to accept this explanation. "If she had cared for me,she'd have sent me word--she could take time for that."
No letter came in the days which followed, and at last he put her out ofhis heart and turned his face to the sunset land which now called tothe sad heart within him with imperious voice. Out there he could forgetall his hurts.
On the morning when the jailer opened the door for him to leave the ironcorridor in which he had spent so many months, his father met him, andthe white face of the boy made the father's heart contract. Harold'scheeks were plump and boyish, but there was a look in his face whichmade him seem a youth of twenty.
The family stood in the jailer's parlor to receive him, and he submittedto their caresses with cold dignity. His manner plainly expressed thisfeeling: "You are all strangers to me." But he turned to Jack andgripped his hand hard. "Now for the plains!"
Side by side the father and son passed out into the sunshine. The boydrew an audible breath, as if in sudden, keen pain. Around him lay thebare, brown earth of March. The sun was warm and a subtle odor of latelyuncovered sward was in the air. The wind, soft, warm, and steady, blewfrom the west. Here and there a patch of grass, faintly green, showedwhere sullen snow banks had lately lain. And the sky! Filled with cloudsalmost as fleecy and as white as June, the sky covered him, and when heraised his eyes to it he saw a triangular flock of geese sweeping tothe northwest, serene and apparently effortless.
He could not speak--did not wish to hear any speech but that of Nature,and the father seemed to comprehend his son's mood, for he, too, walkedin silence.
The people of the village knew that Harold was to return to freedom thatday, and with one excuse or another they came to the doors to see himpass. Some of them were genuinely sympathetic, and bowed and smiled,intending to say, "Let by-gones be by-gones," but to their greetingsHarold remained blankly unresponsive. Jack would gladly have walked withHarold, but out of consideration for the father fell into step behind.
The girls--some of them--had the grace to weep when they saw Harold'ssad face. Others tittered and said: "Ain't he awful pale." For the mostpart, the citizens considered his punishment sufficient, and weredisposed to give him another chance. To them, Harold, by his manner,intended to reply: "I don't want any favors. I won't accept any chancefrom you. I despise you and I don't want to see you again."
He looked upon the earth and the sky rather than upon the faces of hisfellows. His natural love of Nature had been intensified by hiscaptivity, while a bitter contempt and suspicion of all men and womenhad grown up in his mind. He entered his father's house with reluctanceand loathing.
The day was one of preparation. Jack had carried out, so far as he wellcould, the captive's wishes. His gun, his clothing, and his valise wereready for him, and Mrs. Excell had washed and ironed all his linen withscrupulous care. His sister Maud had made a little "housewife" for him,and filled it with buttons and needles and thread, a gift he did notvalue, even from her.
"I'm going out West to herd cattle, not to cobble trousers," he saidcontemptuously.
Jack had a report to make. "Harry, I've found a chance for you," he saidwhen they were alone. "There was a man moving to Colorado here onSaturday. He said he could use you, but of course I had to tell him youcouldn't go for a few days. He's just about to Roseville now. I'll tellyou what you do. You get on the train and go to Roseville--I'll let youhave the money--and you strike him when he comes through. His name isPratt. He's a tall old chap, talks queer. Of course he may have a handnow, but anyway you must get out o' here. He wouldn't take you if heknew you'd been in jail."
"Aren't you going?" asked Harold sharply.
Jack looked uneasy. "Not now, Harry. You see, I want to graduate, I'm sonear through. It wouldn't do to quit now. I'll stay till fall. I'll getto Uncle John's place about the time you do."
Harold said no more, but his face darkened with disappointment.
The call to dinner brought them all together once more, and theminister's grace became a short prayer for the safety of his son, brokenagain and again by the weakness of his own voice and by the sobs of Maudand Mrs. Excell. Harold sat with rigid face, fixed in a frown. The mealproceeded in sad silence, for each member of the family felt that Haroldwas leaving them never to return.
Jack's plan was determined upon, and after dinner he went to hitch uphis horse to take Harry out to the farm. The family sat in painfulsuspense for a few moments after Jack went out, and then Mr. Excellsaid:
"My son, we have never been friends, and the time is past when I canexpect to win your love and confidence, but I hope you will not go awaywith any bitterness in your heart toward me." He waited a moment for hisson to speak, but Harold continued silent, which again confused andpained the father, but he went on: "In proof of what I say I want tooffer you some money to buy a horse and saddle when you need them."
"I don't need any money," said Harold, a little touched by the affectionin his father's voice. "I can earn all the money I need."
"Perhaps so, but a little money might be useful at the start. You willneed a horse if you herd cattle."
"I'll get my own horse--you'll need all you can earn," said Harold inreply.
Mr. Excell's tone changed. "What makes you say that, Harold? What do youmean?"
"Oh, I didn't mean anything in particular."
"Have you heard of the faction which is growing up in the church againstme?"
Harold hesitated. "Yes--but I wasn't thinking of that particularly." Hebetrayed a little interest. "What's the matter with 'em?"
"There has been an element in the church hostile to me from the first,and during your trial and sentence these persons have used every effortto spread a feeling against me. How wide it is I can not tell, but Iknow it is strong. It may end my work here, for I will not cringe tothem. They will find me iron."
Harold's heart warmed suddenly. Without knowing it the father had againstruck the right note to win his son. "That's right," the boy said,"don't let 'em tramp on you."
A lump arose in the minister's throat. There was something very sweet inHarold's sympathy. His eyes smiled, even while they were dim with tears.He held out his hand and Harold took it.
"Well, now, my son, it's time for you to start. Don't you worry aboutme. I am a fighter when I am aroused."
Harold smiled back into his face, and so it was that the two men parted,for the father, in a flash of insight, understood that no more than thiscould be gained; but his heart was lighter than it had been for manymonths as he saw his son ride away from his door.
"Write often, Harold," he called after them.
"All right. You let me know how the fight comes out. If they whip you,come out West," was Harold's reply; then he turned in his seat. "Driveahead, Jack; there's no one now but your folks for whom I care."
As they drove out along the muddy lanes the hearts of the two boysbecame very tender. Harold, filled with exaltation by every familiarthing--by the flights of ground sparrows, by the patches of green grass,by the smell of the wind, by the infrequent boom of the prairiechickens--talked incessantly.
"What makes me maddest," he broke out, "is to think they've cheated meout of seeing one fall and one winter. I didn't see the geese flysouth, and now here they are all going north again. Some time I mean tofind out wher
e they go to." He took off his hat. "This wind will mightysoon take the white out o' me, won't it?" He was very gay. He slappedhis chum on the shoulder and shouted with excitement. "We must keepgoing, old man, till we strike the buffalo. They are the sign of wildcountry that _is_ wild. I want to get where there ain't any fences."
Jack smiled sadly in reply. Harold knew he listened and so talked on. "Imust work up a big case of sunburn before I strike Mr. Pratt for a job.Did he have extra horses?"
"'Bout a dozen. His girl was driving the cattle, but he said----"
"Girl? What kind of a girl?"
"Oh, a kind of a tomboy, freckled--chews gum and says 'darn it!' Thatkind of a girl."
Harold's face darkened. "I don't like the idea of that girl. She mighthave heard something, and then it would go hard with me."
"Don't you worry. The Pratts ain't the kind of people that readnewspapers; they didn't stop here but a day, anyhow."
The sight of Mr. Burns and his wife at the gate moved Harold deeply.Mrs. Burns came hurrying out: "You blessed boy! Get right down and letme hug you," and as he leaped down she put her arms around him as if hewere her own son, and Harold's eyes smarted with tears.
"I declare," said Mr. Burns, "you look like a fightin' cock; must feedyou well down there?"
No note of doubt, hesitation, concealment, or shame was in theirgreetings and the boy knew it. They all sat around the kitchen, andchatted and laughed as if no ill thing had ever happened to him. Burnsuttered the only doubtful word when he said: "I don't know about thisrunning away from things here. I'd be inclined to stay here and fight itout."
"But it isn't running away, Dad," said Jack. "Harry has always wanted togo West and now is the first time he has really had the chance."
"That's so," admitted the father. "Still, I'm sorry to see him look likehe was running away."
Mrs. Burns was determined to feed Harry into complete torpor. She put upenough food in a basket to last him to San Francisco at the shortest.Even when the boys had entered the buggy she ordered them to wait whileshe brought out some sweet melon pickles in a jar to add to thecollection.
"Well, now, good-by," said Harold, reaching down his hand to Mrs.Burns, who seized it in both hers.
"You poor thing, don't let the Indians scalp ye."
"No danger o' that," he called back.
"Be good to yourself," shouted Burns, and the buggy rolled through thegate into the west as the red sun was setting and the prairie cocks werecrowing.
The boys talked their plans all over again while the strong young horsespattered through the mud. Slowly the night fell, and as they rode underthe branches of the oaks, Jack took courage to say:
"I wish Miss Yardwell had been here, Harry."
"It's no use talking about her; she don't care two straws for me; if shehad she would have written to me, at least."
"Her mother may have been dying."
"Even that needn't keep her from letting me know or sending some word.She didn't care for me--she was just trying to convert me."
"She wasn't the kind of a girl who flirts. By jinks! You should see herlook right through the boys that used to try to walk home with her afterprayer meeting. They never tried it a second time. She's a wonder thatway. One strange thing about her, she never acts like other girls. Youknow what I mean? She's different. She's going to be a singer, andtravel around giving concerts--she told me so once."
Harold was disposed to be fair. "I don't want anybody to feel sorry forme. I suppose she felt that way, and tried to help me." Here he pausedand his voice changed. "But when I'm a cattle king out West and can buyher the best home in Des Moines--maybe she won't pity me so much.Anyhow, there's nothing left for me but to emigrate. There's no usestayin' around here. Out there is the place for me now."
Jack put Harold down at the station and turned over to him all the moneyhe had in the world. Harold took it, saying:
"Now you'll get this back with interest, old man. I need it now, but Iwon't six months from now. I'm going to strike a job before long--don'tyou worry."
Their good-by was awkward and constrained, and Harold felt the partingmore keenly than he dared to show. Jack rode away crying--a brothercould not have been more troubled. It seemed that the bitterness ofdeath was in this good-by.